Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  "Shhh! Listen," said Belissa.

  "Some of you," continued Charis, "may know that I spoke with the Belrene yesterday. It has come to this—" She paused.

  They stopped eating and sat up. "Well, must we stand on our heads?" asked Peronn.

  "He has agreed to give us half of the gold sacrifice from now on—"

  "Half!" cried Joet, leaping to his feet. The bull dancers looked at one another in disbelief. Joet swept Charis into a clumsy embrace and kissed her cheek. "Half, by the god's golden gonads! Did you hear? Praise for our beautiful headstrong leader!"

  "Sit down, Joet," shouted the others. "Let her finish."

  "The Belrene has also agreed to allow me to choose the bulls. Yes, and he has seen the error of trying to force his ridiculous rules on us."

  "We are free!" cried Peronn and Galai together.

  "And rich!" added Joet.

  "What is the matter, Maro?" teased Belissa. She nudged him in the ribs. "Did you leave your head under the covers this morning?"

  Marophon smiled weakly. "No, I heard. I am glad…"

  Other teams of dancers had begun filing into the courtyard. "Now then," said Charis, "I want you to begin your exercise at once. We must be finished before the sun gets too hot. Do not rush. Begin slowly. It will be an oven out there today; we will be wise to nurse our stamina." She clapped her hands. "Get along with you now. I will join you very soon."

  The dancers shoved back their chairs and started across the courtyard. "Maro," Charis called. "A word please."

  The dancer returned, shamefaced. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it and stood gazing down at his feet instead.

  "I will not remind you of your sacred vow of abstinence," Charis began. Although she spoke softly, there was a wilting anger behind her tongue just waiting to be unleashed. "We are all virgins—or were—sacred to the god alone as long as we dance. Tell me, why have you seen fit to break this holy vow? And how long have you been sleeping with this whore?"

  "She is no whore," he began. "She is a dancer. She—"

  "More the shame! You have caused her to break her vow as well. Maro, what were you thinking of? Today of all days!"

  "I—I am sorry…"

  "If I were Belrene you would both be scourged and flung down the temple steps."

  "But you said the Belrene gave you permission to deal with us yourself."

  "Shut up, Maro! You make things worse with your whining. Yes, I have the Belrene's authority to do with you as I please. Do you think I should be more lenient with you because of that? Why? Tell me!"

  The unhappy young man hung his head and said nothing.

  "You show wisdom, Maro, but too late."

  The dancer's head snapped up. "You will let me dance? Please, it will never happen again. I swear it! Never! You must believe me."

  "You violated a dancer's most sacred vow! How could you!"

  The dancer grimaced with pain.

  "You know this jeopardizes us all. The others will be put at risk because of you."

  "I will dance alone," he mumbled hopelessly.

  "I should not let you dance at all!" Charis stared at him a long time. "But it seems I have no choice. If I strike you from the group now it will be weeks before I can ready a replacement, and even one inexperienced dancer is too many. Junoi is just now gaining confidence. If I added another new dancer now…" She sighed. "What am I to do?"

  "I could dance alone," Maro repeated. "I would not endanger anyone."

  "Except yourself." Charis shook her head. "No, it will be best if the others know nothing about it. You will dance with Belissa and me—we will perform the routine I created for the Festival."

  Marophon nodded and kept his eyes downcast. "Thank you."

  "Thank me later. Go now, before I decide to have you flung down the temple steps instead."

  The dancer hurried away without looking back. Marophon must still be punished, she thought; it would not do for dancers to discover they could violate the most holy vow without serious consequence.

  But no, it did not matter. After today it would not matter anymore.

  * * *

  It took longer than Charis anticipated to choose the bulls for the day's dance. Finding a pitman proved difficult, and getting the bullmaster to take her orders seriously even more so. But Charis persisted; she demanded, cajoled, and invoked the Belrene's authority several times more than she would have liked and in the end succeeded.

  She walked through the subterranean chambers, pausing before each stall, peering through the dark lattice as the pitman held his smudgy torch. Each beast regarded her with a docile disinterest which might have deceived a less-experienced appraiser but did not mislead Charis for a moment. She knew most of die animals and had only to glance at the wear of horns and hoofs, condition of the hide, size of hump and hindquarters, the set of the eyes to form an accurate opinion of an unfamiliar beast's likely behavior in the ring.

  After looking at a dozen or more and choosing four which she was sure would allow her bull dancers solid yet spirited performances, Charis found herself unable to find the right bull for her own final performance. One after another, she appraised and rejected each animal until, time running out, she forced herself to make a choice, reminding herself that there was not a bull among them that she could not handle with ease.

  The last bull she looked at was a huge red beast she had not seen before. "What of this one?" she asked as the pitman leaned against the heavy iron lattice.

  "Oh, ah! Umm," said the pitman cryptically, screwing up his face in an odd contortion Charis took to approximate a knowing wink. "He is a new one. From the west country, from Mykenea he is."

  "Is he trained to the ring?"

  "Oh, ah, yes. Small rings mostly—but aren't they all?—although we, ah, have it that he was a season at King Musaeus' ring at Argos."

  Charis examined the animal closely. A bull unaccustomed to a large, noisy ring could well be trouble. But an unknown red—his appearance would give the crowd a thrill appropriate for her last performance.

  "We, ah, received another from Mykenea. Do you want to see it?"

  "No," replied Charis firmly. "This one will do. I want him last."

  They returned to the bullmaster, who was giving his pitmen instructions about the animals to be readied for the day's per formance. "These are my choices for the Gulls," Charis told him, relating the bulls she had chosen in the proper order. "And the new one—it is to be last. I want it for myself."

  "As you wish," replied the bullmaster, recording her instructions. "It will be done."

  Charis left the pit and hurried to the ring. Her Gulls would be nearly finished with their exercises and she had not yet begun. At the ring she passed through the dancer's ready room and pulled off her shift, replacing it with a short, belted tunic. Still winding the belt around her waist, she stepped out into the ring. Several other teams were limbering up as well. The Gulls had finished their exercises and were practicing jumps with the wooden standards. Charis began stretching, slowly, gently, pulling the tightness out of her back and legs, all the while watching her dancers with a trainer's critical eye.

  "Knees together, Peronn!" she called, coming across the sand to where they stood. "And keep your chin tucked in. Feel the curve of your spine. Now try it again." She turned to the others. "Belissa, Galai, Kalili, Junoi—everyone. I want to see seven perfect doubles."

  They all worked on the wooden standard while the sun rose higher, glinting hot and bright off the sand in the ring. The sweat ran freely down the dancers' arms and legs, soaking their tunics. Charis felt the need of additional exercise for herself but did not want to tire her dancers. The sun would leach away their strength; stamina would flow away like water. Already they were jumping closer to the standard, their arcs tighter, less open and easy.

  Charis clapped her hands. "Enough! It is enough. We will rest now. Everyone inside. It is time to rest."

  They trotted off to the ready room, leaving the rin
g to the other teams of dancers. It was cool and dark inside. They scraped the sweat from their limbs with bronze strigils and rubbed themselves with strips of clean linen, sipped water from cups, and talked to one another, moving all the while to cool off slowly.

  "Gather around, chattering Gulls," said Charis, arranging them in a circle around her on the floor. Once settled, she began explaining the order of the day's performance, giving each dancer his or her instructions and going over the routines one by one.

  She concluded by saying, "Let us dance today as we have never danced before. It will be a difficult day. The heat, the sun, is against us and the crowd will be surly, but I want them on their feet cheering as never before. Let no one who sees us dance ever forget this day."

  Joet, the most vocal of the troop, asked, "Is there something different about this day, captain?"

  Charis hesitated and her hesitation piqued interest. Marophon looked away. "Yes," she answered finally. "Or have you forgotten?"

  Blank stares. "The gold!" she said. "Today we receive half of all that is given. Therefore, I want a never-ending shower, a river of gold poured out for us."

  The dancers laughed and began bantering over whose exploits would earn them the most. Charis moved toward the door, saying, "Rest now. I will return when it is time to dress for the ring."

  Charis went back to her room and lay down on her bed but found that she could not rest. She kept thinking ahead, past the performance to the awful, inevitable moment when she would tell her dancers that they had performed their last.

  Was she being fair to them? she wondered. Was there another way, any other way?

  Of course, they were free to choose for themselves. If they wanted to remain in the temple, they could join another team. No doubt they would be welcome in any team they chose, unless petty jealousy prevented it. But they would no longer be Gulls. No, that had to end. Without Charis there would be no more Gulls.

  Still, she hoped that they would choose freedom, to walk away from the ring while they were still whole and sane.

  The Belrene was right: she had had a long and illustrious tenure, but it had to end. Better to end it now at the peak of her prowess, in triumph, by her own choice.

  Her mind full of the ferment of her decision and its implications, she rose, slipped on her gown and sandals, and went out to wander the temple byways, walking aimlessly, feeling the old nervous flutter in her stomach. It was not the dance she was nervous about this time, but the feeling reminded her of that first day, the first time she danced.

  It was a day in early spring; she had been two years in the temple, undergoing the rigorous training of the bull dancer, advancing through the neophyte ranks with uncanny facility. She had taken to the dance as if born to it, as if it were in some way a natural thing to cavort with slavering, enraged beasts. And even that first day, though her performance was in no way extraordinary, those who saw her remembered the solemn-faced girl who danced with such aplomb, so completely abandoned to the fate of the ring.

  This casual disregard for her body became an emblem. It was not long before people were filling seats in the arena solely to see the girl who danced with death. Although no one who saw the slim figure standing alone in the center of the ring ever doubted death was more than the merest heartbeat away, she eluded that grim reality with almost whimsical ease—even while performing feats considered too dangerous by other dancers. Her inspired performances quickly earned her the respect of the other older dancers and she was made leader of her team, the Grays.

  She proved a demanding leader, however, and one by one the members of her team were pared away to be replaced by other, more talented dancers chosen by her. Soon the Grays became the Gulls.

  Now it was to end. She had never deceived herself about that; despite what she told the Belrene, she knew that one day it would end. There would be a mistake, an error, a miscalculation however minute, and it would end. Pain and blood, yes, but also release. Life would end.

  Her recognition of this certainty had made it possible for her to hold off the pain and blood for as long as she had. She accepted the inevitable fact; more, she embraced it, gloried in it, flaunted it. The gods responded to her bravery and abandon by conferring upon her a longevity denied other dancers, a gift Charis had never sought and did not value.

  Until now. "It is time you made a decision," the queen had told her. Very well, she had made her decision. The others would have to make their own. She could not be responsible for them forever. She would give them one more dance and then set them free. And she would be free. They would dance once more for the gold and the gold would buy a future.

  Charis' steps had taken her far from the temple precinct. She stood in a near-deserted side street in a market district where merchants were busily striking their awnings and shuttering their shops. She realized they were closing because it was time for the arena gates to open.

  She turned and fled back the way she had come.

  * * *

  The first team of the day had already entered the ring by the time Charis reached the ready room. The cries of the crowd in stands directly above covered Charis' breathless entrance. She dressed quickly, pulling on the stiff leather clout, tugging the hip laces tight; she wound the linen band around her chest and from a camphor box lifted out a laurel necklace with leaves of thin gold. With deft fingers she plaited her long hair into a thick braid and, snatching up a white leather thong with which to bind it, joined her dancers.

  The Gulls were dressed and ready. They sat in a loose circle, legs crossed, arms resting lightly on knees, eyes closed in meditation. Charis eased into the meditative position, took the three breaths of ritual purification, and began:

  "Glorious Bel, god of fire and light,

  Ruler of the skyways, Lord of the Underworld,

  And of all things enduring,

  Hear the petitions of your servants!

  Eldest of Heaven, look down from your high throne,

  Shower the favor of your presence upon us,

  Give us strength, give us courage, give us valor,

  We who dance before you this day.

  Great of Might, Illuminator of the Earth,

  Flourish in our sacrifice,

  Live in our spirits,

  Inhabit the beauty of the dance. "

  When the prayer had been recited three times, the dancers rose silently and began stretching, loosening limbs and muscles, each dancer reaching deep down into the well of the soul to bring up the courage required to take that first step into the ring. Once over the threshold, the endless hours of practice and repetition would take over and movements would be instinctive. But the first step required an effort of will no training or repetition could render involuntary. And each dancer had to find that strength alone.

  From the sound of applause they knew that the first team of dancers had finished and that the second team had entered the ring. The Gulls continued with their preparations. One by one they came to the large amphora of alabaster which sat in a low tripod in the center of the room, dipped their hands into the fragrant oil, and began smoothing it over their bodies.

  Taking up a small stone jar, Charis circulated among her dancers. At her approach each dancer knelt—eyes closed, hands raised in the sun sign. Charis dipped her finger into the jar and then drew a golden circle at the base of each dancer's throat.

  The cries of the crowds in the stands above reached a crescendo and then died suddenly. The dancers glanced at one another silently. They knew the sound and what it meant: a dancer lay in the ring, crimson blood seeping into the hot, white sand.

  "Bel has chosen his own," whispered Chairs. "Bel be praised."

  "Bel be praised," repeated the others.

  She held out her hands and dancers on either side took them, and one by one they all joined hands, forming a circle in the center of the room. "Who are we?" asked Charis softly.

  "We are the Gulls," the dancers replied.

  "Who are we?"

  "W
e are the Gulls!" they shouted, their voices rising. "The Gulls! We are the Gulls!"

  "We are the best," cried Charis. "The best!"

  "We are the Gulls and we are the best!" they shouted.

  At that moment the huge inner doors of the room swung open. Two pitmen stood watching them, sweating. Still holding hands, the dancers walked quickly into the hard, bright sunlight. A roar of recognition and delight surged from a thousand throats. Charis felt the familiar thrill run through her body. She looked up at the steeply-banked sides of the arena into the cheering mass and slowly raised her hands. The simple gesture brought the crowds to their feet amidst a peal of acclaim, her name thunder in the tormented air.

  Char-is! Char-is! Char-r-isss!

  There was no prelude. Across the arena another door opened and a bull rushed into the burning ring. He shook his monstrous head, trailing streams of saliva. His horns had been painted red, the tips sharp and gleaming. At Charis' signal Joet and Galai advanced, walking easily to the center of the oval; the remaining Gulls left the ring to their comrades.

  The bull charged at once. Head lowered, he swept toward the two. But by the time he reached them, the dancers were gone. To the animal's dumb surprise they were never quite where they appeared to be, so that when the dance was over and the doors were opened once more and the pitmen raced out waving their nets, the confused animal went willingly. The spectators laughed and shouted; Joet and Galai ran tumbling from the ring.

  "Well done," said Charis, hugging them both as they came running up, breathless, glowing with exhilaration. She nodded to the others. Joining hands, Kalili, Junoi, and Peronn dashed forward to take their places in the center of the ring. Peronn lifted Junoi high over his head and Kalili whirled around them, arms flung wide.

  The pitmen released the bull from across the ring. The animal stalked casually toward them, bellowed once, and made its charge. The crowd gasped. Did the dancers even see it? If they did, they appeared to take no notice. Kalili spun in circles behind Peronn, who still held Junoi poised above him.

  The bull rushed toward them. At the last possible second Peronn gently released Junoi, who righted herself and lightly touched down on the bull's back, skipped along the animal's spine, and jumped to the ground as Peronn dodged to the left. Kalili had moved to the side and now sprang up on the beast's back. She rode the bull, standing straight, legs together, arms wide, while the creature bellowed and spun, trying to dislodge her.